


Of An Angel

by thorsodinsn



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Cute, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heaven, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:24:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorsodinsn/pseuds/thorsodinsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Merle?” A flash of gold flickers by the thick trunk of an oak. A slender hand, small and smooth as porcelain, lights on the scarred bark. A child peeks out, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Th-That’s your name, right?” She seems nervous and it is then that Merle notices her fingers trembling. She waits a moment, then says again, “Merle?” || Sophia greets Merle in the afterlife. || Drabble || Slight Caryl Undertones || S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of An Angel

It feels a lot like falling, only it’s up instead of down. It’s dark all around, so dark he can hardly tell if his eyes are open or closed. Wind rushes in an angry roar past his ears and he’s trying to breathing but there goes in, and in, and in and he can’t force back it out and his chest burns, burns, **burns**. A cry tears right through him, splits him right in half, and he feels his heart crumble away like ash. He tastes the salt of tears on cracked lips before he realizes them rolling down his cheeks.

There are hands on him, but they belong to a ghost. He screams as something hard and sharp tears through his chest once and then twice and three and four and five times before the heaving sobs grow distant and the pain fades bit by numbing bit.

Something bright sears his eyelids and he blinks against the harsh white light. It assaults from all sides, painful and blinding at first but slowly melting to a sunny yellow warmth that wraps around him like a blanket. His breath comes back and the air is fresher and cleaner than he’s ever known. His heart slows its war-beat drumming and gives his aching ribs a rest. Sitting up, he rubs at his chest, calloused fingers prodding for those aching spots that he swore were there just minutes ago.

The whole damn world surrenders to silence. Then, in drips and drabs, it comes alive; a mourning dove’s low song, the rippling of a stream, the rustle of branches tossed in a breeze—and a muffled whispering.

The voice is soft and small and unfamiliar. He strains to pick out words only to find that it’s saying one word, over and over: his name. Slowly, Merle pushes himself to his feet. He follows the quiet sound, moving on hunter’s feet through the lush grass of what looks like a meadow. It is a strange place, that’s for damn sure. Foreign, yet familiar. He does not know the land, yet he has the strange feeling he’s been there before.

“Merle?” A flash of gold flickers by the thick trunk of an oak. A slender hand, small and smooth as porcelain, lights on the scarred bark. A child peeks out, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Th-That’s your name, right?”

She seems nervous and it is then that Merle notices her fingers trembling. She waits a moment, then says again, “Merle?”

“I know you?” he asks. She jumps at his voice, raspy and rough as it is, but then his question registers and she nods her head. “I do, huh?” He looks her up and down. She’s all slender and scrawny with knobby knees and sharp elbows that jut out beneath the drooping sleeves of her shirt. Her wide eyes are latched onto him, watching his every move. Her trembling has yet to stop, but she curls her little fingers into a fist to try to hide it. “Where from, then?”

She stares at him, teeth working their way at flakes of skin on her thin lips. “A-Atlanta.”

“Atlanta,” he parrots, holding her gaze. She nods again. Strands of her blonde hair fall in her face and she uses her free hand to push them away. She stands up a little straighter, thrusts out her chin.

“I knew your brother, too,” she says, with a little more confidence. Merle pauses.

“Daryl?” No word has ever tasted sweeter on his tongue and his heart is light when the girl nods her head.

“I’ve been watchin’ him,” she says. “I can show you where.”

Well, now he’s fucking lost. The girl holds out her tiny little hand and, when he doesn’t take it, shakes it so that he knows he’s supposed to. “It isn’t far,” she promises. She worries more at her bottom lip while she waits. Merle sees the beginnings of a smile twitch at the corner of her mouth when his rough hand takes hers. And perhaps it should shock him more that he’s given her his right hand, fully intact and attached, no haphazard hacksaw scars to be seen.

For someone so little, the girl’s legs are long and she moves quickly across the expansive field. There’s a small gazebo perched in the middle and she hops up the steps, tugging at Merle’s hand all the way. “Right over here,” she says, guiding him to the far railing. “You just have to look right out there—no, no, straight. Yeah, there.” She giggles and, for the first time since he’s met her, seems relaxed as she points him to the right spot. “Do you see him?”

He starts to say no, eyes squinting against the impossible blue of the sky. All he sees are clouds and birds and the occasional fluttering butterflies. “He’s right there,” the little girl says. He can practically hear her smiling when she adds, “He’s with my mom.”

“I don’t see shit, kid,” Merle admits. He drops her hand, ready to turn and leave when she grasps his wrist.

“Wait! You wanna see him, don’t you?”

“Kid, there ain’t nothin’ there.” Her frown creases her brow and she slips her hand down to lace her skinny little fingers with his.

“There _is_ ,” she insists. “It’s hard to see at first. I remember. You just have to look really hard. Just give it one more try.”

She squeezes his hand so hard he thinks she’s trying to hold him in place. A sigh brushes past his lips and he concedes, if only to make her yammering stop. The girl leans against the railing and raises both their hands, pointing Merle in the right direction yet again.

“Just look hard,” she reminds him. Merle sighs again, feeling like a fucking fool, but does as he’s told because otherwise this little shit might not ever let him fucking rest. He strains against the stretch of blue and rolling clouds and—what was that?

A flicker; at first, he thinks it’s a bird’s wing or beak or talon but then it sparks again. An image swims in open air, a blur of blacks and browns, and then he sees him. Daryl is sitting beside the old Triumph. The bike is polished to perfection, kept clean with the same meticulous care Merle had instilled in his brother. His eyes seem puffy, skin red and swollen as if he’d been crying not long ago.

Daryl flicks his head up, turns his eyes away from Merle and for a moment the elder is insulted. Then he sees the slender hand, hears quiet words murmured. Carol’s fingers lace with Daryl’s and the hunter is hoisted to his feet.

“Do you see them now?” the girl asks.

“Shut up,” Merle snaps. He feels her hand tremble in his and glances down to find her wide eyes staring up at him. She doesn’t quite look frightened, but absolutely on the verge. His eyes soften and he shakes his head. “What’d you say your name was again?”

“S-Sophia,” she answers. He looks back down to his brother, sees him standing hand-in-hand with the woman who’d been so fearful way back in Atlanta. Carol. Sophia’s mother. He squeezes the little girl’s hand. He feels her tense and feels her eyes peer up at him, relaxing when she catches the faint smile spreading across his face.

“Thank you.”


End file.
